We Live In Glass Houses
by DarkDefender89
Summary: Hanna is numb, Selina is lost in her Cat, Bruce is trying to stay focussed on his duty, when a new villain enters Gotham. They are are just struggling to get by, but what happens when the villain's daughter is the answer to everything?
1. Sometimes Its Not What We Do

**We Live In Glass Houses**

**Main Characters: Bruce Wayne**

**Alfred**

** Gordon**

**Hanna Ming (OC)**

**Yina and Jade (minor OCs)**

**Barbara Gordon (the daughter, not the wife)**

**Richard Grayson**

** Selina Kyle **

** Lucius Fox**

**Cassandra Cain**

**Pairings: Bruce/OC/Selina triangle; Richard/Cassandra**

**Summary: **_Hanna Ming, a half Chinese best selling author moves to Gotham and ends up in the middle of a crisis of cat and bat; is she simply getting in the way or will she come in handy when a young boy's parents are murdered during their duo circus act? When both Hanna and Selina fall in love with Bruce, who will Bruce choose? What if neither of them want to fall in love?_

**Chapter One: Sometimes Its Not What We Do**

**Hanna POV**

I wasn't expecting strange. I knew what I was in for, you know, when I moved to Gotham. But this isn't just any other story, and there's no mistaking me for a damsel-in-distress. I had everything under control, right? I thought I had my destiny figured out…I had finally published my third novel and escaped from the grips of the broken shards of glass of my broken family. Sweet, right? I knew that I wasn't going to let just anybody control my life. Everything you do, you do it for a reason – you have some sort of goal, some light to see on the other end of the tunnel. That was what I was all about. I used to play violin but I stopped in my freshman year of college when I found out that it wouldn't lead me anywhere; I didn't love it enough and I certainly wasn't concert mistress/soloist material, so what's the point? I knew I was going to be a novelist. It was my true passion. I also knew I was going to be alone forever. My freshman year of college was also the year I discovered martial arts, my other true passion.

So yeah, I have a couple of black belts, but fighting wasn't like writing…it wasn't like I had any big plans banking on fighting. There wasn't anyplace you could _go _with it. I had flirted with figure skating when I was a child but that never lasted long: figure skaters, their goal are an Olympic gold medal. Men who train football can hope to make a national team. Musicians can strive to be famous soloists. Science geeks can aim for the Nobel Prize and something along the lines of saving humanity and curing the incurable. There's always a goal, an end line. Fighting was everything, but wrestling put martial arts to shame (any good martial artist could easily defeat a wrestler) and there wasn't a material goal for martial artists. And I wasn't as material girl. I had a mission, I just didn't know what it was. Sometimes I think I have OCD because I can never just do something for the sake of how fun it is; for the sake of the adrenaline pumping in my veins and the _power_ in my lithe body. Maybe I did it to challenge the conventional idea that women are weak. But martial arts was something that writing and music had never been able to be for me: something to do just for the sake of doing….to get lost in the moment and be at one with myself. Focused. Meditative state. The intensity. It wasn't really about the power, but more about the spirituality. With violin and writing I always wanted to be the best, and I had an end goal and so it was all about work and no play. Martial arts, I guess, is what keeps me sane.

When I moved Gotham my life changed irrevocably. At this point I was expecting to be alone forever – I mean I was twenty-six years old and have never had a real relationship in my life.

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I fell back on my black velvet comforter on the bed in my small dingy apartment (I had money from my three novels, but I didn't see the point of wasting it on luxuries. I knew better. I wasn't about to make the same mistake my parents made). I sighed, staring out the window at the ghastly buildings. It was dark out and the street lights were glorious but I knew that there was more to Gotham nights than alluring street lights. The outer surface seems brilliant but 'not all that is gold glitters', I learned that from Tolkien.

Part of me missed my friends from Pittsburgh. I thought of calling Yina or Jade but wasn't really sure if I should. Jade was lucky – she was living the life with Hogan in Tennessee. I loved Jade, really, she was one of my best friends, but I loved Hogan first. Okay, that's a complete lie, Yina loved him first. You see, that was the one thing the three of us had in common: we were all in love with Hogan. Yina and Jade had both been in a relationship with him – Yina first, then Jade. Me, well I don't talk, so of course I never had a chance. But the three of us were like the trio you would see in movies and of course we never let something like a master martial artist with cool scars on his legs get in between us. Yes, that was another similarity between us, we were all martial artists.

My cell phone rang and I answered it. "Hey," I said, answering my phone.

"Hanna! I didn't think you would answer!" Yina said.

"Haha, well, it was either answer or stare out my window at the worst crime city of the world," I replied with caustic laughter and a playful tone.

"You know, you could be doing something about it," Yina said, giggling.

"Yeah, maybe I'll write a novel about it," I said, joking.

"Have you met anyone yet? You really need to go out more," Yina said.

"There's this charity dance/function tomorrow, I was thinking of going, maybe donating some of the money from my novels," I said.

"You really should _use_ that money for yourself, hun. It wouldn't hurt," Yina said.

"I think it would," I said stubbornly. My dark blue eyes stared at a shadow on my bed. My fingers stroked the folds of my comforter and sighed, watching as my breath trailed from my mouth into the hot air of my apartment. It was a waste of money to install air conditioner when I could live without it. There was nothing I couldn't endure, or at least that was what I thought.

"Who's hosting it?" Yina asked, breaking me out of my one-sided reverie.

"Hosting what?" I asked.

"The charity dance, silly!" Yina said.

"Oh, um, some superficial billionaire playboy. What was his name again? Oh yeah…Bruce Wayne," I said.

"Lucky you," Yina said. I could almost _hear_ her grinning over the phone. I could sense the presence of her smirk, teasing playfully but also happy for me, implying that _I_ might be interested in him. 'Ha! Yeah right!' I thought sarcastically. But we knew everything about each other and I could tell from her voice what her implication was and I didn't like it.

"Shut up!" I said. "You know you hate him every bit as much as I do."

"Okay, okay, fine, Hanna," Yina said.

"Bye!" I said, smiling.

"Have fun tomorrow!" Yina said.

"Goodbye," I said, with a tone of grinning-finality to my voice. After I flipped the lid of my cell phone I plopped onto my bed and sighed. Having nothing else to do I decided I might as well go through a couple of my katas; I didn't want to get behind on that.

I closed my eyes and meditated, standing in the middle of the room. I opened my eyes fiercely and practiced the kata, my stance low and my muscles relaxed and every technique fierce, accurate, and powerful. Hours later, sweaty and pumped with adrenaline, I snuck into the shower, cleaned up and dried off. Then I went over to my desk and turned on my laptop and started typing.

Leave it to writers to find something in a silly cell phone conversation. Leave it to writers to find a short story out of it. Leave it to me, silly old Hanna. My birth name, of course, was Rorrinda Han Ming. I'm half-Chinese, and Han is my Chinese name but all my friends called me Hanna and it sort of stuck. A year ago I was successfully able to legally change my legal name to Hanna Ming.

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Time flew and eventually it was time for me to drive to the stupid function I had agreed to go to. Of course, I would have rather been in my apartment writing poetry or practicing martial arts but this is where I ended up, in my small navy blue car driving to a party-thingy that would probably be horded with selfish wealthy socialites that I _really_ didn't want to see.

Traffic overflowed the road and the music of my radio drowned out the rest of the world and I was completely content to sit in my own world, the purple sky floating around in my head, except I was driving so unfortunately I was concentrating. My other self had already taken over - the part of me that doesn't let anything ever get past me, the part of me that doesn't allow me to fall apart in the little fantasy world I dreamed in and lived in whenever I was writing or reading. That's a writers' greatest blessing and curse, my greatest hamatria…my imagination, my love of everything unreal and fantastic, my ability to fall into a fictional world and absorb it and find out that to me it's the only thing that matters and no one in the real world can save me. It's probably what allowed me to write bestselling novels but it also makes nothing in the real world even close to enough to make me happy; even close to enough to keep me sane. And if this other part of me wasn't constantly there pushing me forward and forcing me to be somewhat practical, I would have already drowned.

I pulled into the parking lot and stared at the fancy building with contempt. I wished I didn't look so damn right for this place: dark blackish brown hair; an exotic skin color that is a mix between my pale, Caucasian mother and my Asian father; high-healed shoes and a velvet navy blue dress. _(A/N: if you want to picture what she looks like, just imagine Kristin Kreuk, the person who plays Lana Lang in Smallville)._

When I walked into the building I was overwhelmed by all of the people there. I walked over to the refreshment table to escape socializing. I have never really been good at talking; it's easier to just read body language and communicate with my body.

Unfortunately, I didn't escape notice. I hoped no one could feel the frown radiating from my skin.

"Aren't you Rorrinda Han Ming, the author of _Firestorm_?"

Damn, someone had to go and recognize me.

"Yeah, but I go by Hanna," I said. "I legally changed my name a year ago."

I didn't know who I was talking to but then I turned around and I saw Bruce Wayne. I looked him up and down and forced myself to remember that_ "tall dark and mysterious_" was but an illusion and nothing like the "_tall dark and mysterious"s_ in all of my fantasy worlds.

"Not that you read, I bet," I said, suddenly frowning. I was surprised, of course, although why would he recognize me if he didn't read? I wasn't exactly as famous as J.K. Rowling. And even _I_, someone passionate about writing, probably wouldn't recognize J.K. Rowling.

"You'd be surprised," Bruce Wayne said, grinning that stupid playboy grin that I was sure he used on every girl he met. 'It's an illusion, Han. Nothing but an illusion.'

"I don't think so, Mr. Wayne," I said, taking a step back and taking a sip of my glass of water. The world was spinning and I could literally feel the presence of skinny bimbos waiting for Bruce. I could see them, too, stalking behind me and whispering about my "ugly man thighs." I wasn't fat, though, I was slim and muscular and being compared to a man was a good thing to me and I didn't give a shit what anorexic models thought of me, especially since I was anorexic when I was in high school; especially since I learned in college that stronger is way better than skinny and weak. What does beauty stand for but a world where women are powerless and men have complete control over society? Fool me not. Strength surpasses beauty and even though I have been told I have both I really didn't give a shit. I didn't want anyone to call me beautiful.

"Call me Bruce," he said. It felt like his eyes were piercing my soul but those models were waiting for him and I didn't want to be treated like one of his bimbos.

I _really_, really didn't want to become another one of his one-timers. That's no fun, you know? I know what it feels like to have a broken heart but mine has been patched up for years and I didn't know how I felt about testing that old muscle any time soon. I've had enough unrequited love to last me two lifetimes.

"I don't know about that, Mr. Wayne," I said, taking another sip of my water (which he probably thought was alcohol). I looked into his eyes – dark chocolate orbs – and my writer's eye saw something that wasn't there, something mysterious whereas my mind (you know, that part of me that keeps me sane and stops me from drowning?) knew he was superficial and there was nothing in his eyes except for a tool to attract foolish girls, except that I wasn't a fool anymore and I wasn't falling under his trap. I've had enough tainted balconies; a long time ago I decided that I didn't need men and I certainly didn't need any billionaires. Money holds no flair to me.

"Dance with me," he said, putting his hand on my shoulder. I looked at him with contempt and flinched. I really didn't want to have anything to do with him. I turned away and suddenly got very interested in counting my toe-nails but I didn't hear him moving away from me.

"Come on, Hanna…I can call you that, right?" he said with that cocky voice of his that couldn't help but be intoxicating.

I placed my glass on the red-and-white checkered cloth covered table and sighed, smiling the way I imagined one of the characters of one of my novels smiling. I looked into Bruce Wayne's eyes and my eyes smiled even though my lips and my mind refused to.

"I don't think so," I said, and turned the other way. The sane part of me was literally forcing me to continue forward, reminding me that real people aren't glorious like fictional characters. My heart was already far away, trapped in a time far away, long ago, forever banished. I still did not know myself, despite knowing myself so much more than some.

I slipped out the back door and faded into the bright lights of Gotham at night. Wind, dust, and a darkening sky twirled like a ballerina-in-training, stumbling ever so slightly, and the awkward angles of the misty air and the violent traffic somehow felt right, not right in the sense of "this is how everything is supposed to be" but right in the sense of "time seems to be frozen and the cool air just feels so refreshing and makes me forget that _this_ is the world everyone lives in".

I hailed a cab, whistling, forcing a smile on my face. I stepped inside and watched the faces of notorious socialites fade away into an ever-darkening night.

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**Bruce POV**

Hanna intrigued me but honestly I was relieved when she turned around and snuck out the door. I could see a deep pain in her eyes that made me want to understand her; caress her and make all of her pain go away. It wasn't my place. My world wasn't for her. It was too dangerous. There was something mystical in Hanna's face, something grim, something that put her in my mind. I forced her out of my mind; now was time for duty and when duty calls nothing personal can get in the way.

I checked my watch: it was already half past nine so I followed suit and snuck out the back door. Back at the manor I played the three piano keys and traveled down to the Bat Cave to don cape and armor. It was time for the Batman to patrol the streets. It was the time of the silent protector, time for me to watch over the city that held my soul and see to it that the dark souls are apprehended and the innocent remain untainted.

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**Neutral POV**

The Batman patrolled the streets, his face grim and giving away no emotions. His face was fierce as he silently swung down from the shadows atop an old warehouse and intervened in a couple of thugs who were selling drugs. The thugs were violent but were no more than second class brawlers and Batman easily knocked them unconscious and called the cops to pick them up before silently slinking off into the night.

Later on he saved a young girl from a potential rapist and later in the night he found himself in an eerily familiar situation. Two sullied men were attempting to steel a young couples' purse and jewels and had a gun pointed at the man's skull. There was no child but still the situation reminded batman of that fateful night his parents were murdered and he silently twisted the gun out of the thug's hands, breaking the thug's wrist in the process. The other thug pulled out a gun and shot at him but the Batman's armor was bullet proof so the bullet simply collided and ricochet off the Batman's chest and the Batman knocked both men unconscious with little effort, ignoring any pain he was in from the night's escapades. It was probably around 2 a.m. and God knows why the couple was out at such an ungodly hour but the Batman saved them and for now everything was okay and all hell didn't break loose.

The Batman patrolled for another hour and he was about to press the button for the Batmobile and retire to the Manor for the night but then he heard on the police frequencies a burglar.

An art museum, a freaking art museum….who steals from an _art_ museum at 3 freaking a.m. in the morning?

The Batman raced to the scene and saw a slim, black figure running on top of the museum holding something in her hands. She wore a cat mask and her speed rivaled that of any criminal the Batman had chased before. Batman chased after this figure; he had to catch her…he would not be deceived and eluded by a petty thief dressed up as a cat.

"No one catches the Catwoman," the thief said, grinning and chuckling. Batman threw a batarang at her, aiming at her shoulder, but the Catwoman dodged the batarang.

Batman caught up and grabbed the supposed Catwoman and kicked her in the ribs, but the Catwoman broke free of his grips and scratched Batman in the shoulders. "What?" the Batman muttered to himself, surprised that something had penetrated his armor. Then he noticed that the Catwoman's claws were made out of silver. Adrenaline was pumping in both of their veins and as they were fighting neither one of them noticed the pain they inflicted on each other. The game was a stalemate and the thief got away, and, as dawn was slowly rising, Batman couldn't continue to chase after the Catwoman.

Batman returned to his Batmobile and sped away to the Batcave. The dark vehicle jarred with the road, flying past the bumps in the road with reckless abandon. It had been a long night and Bruce didn't feel comfortable with the fact that he hadn't been able to catch this Catwoman person. His body was sore and he probably wouldn't be able to get much sleep – he had a meeting at 11 a.m. – but his mind was busy obsessing over his failure. Bruce's face was grim and focused as he pressed the button and geared his car towards the jump over the waterfall and into the Batcave.

Bruce parked his car in the Batcave and stepped out of the car, treading carefully. Normally he would check his body over for wounds but although he was sore he didn't think it was anything serious. His ribs were throbbing from the bullet but luckily his suit had prevented the bullet from piercing his flesh; there would probably a nasty bruise that he could easily hide with his fancy business suits. He didn't have time to look it over thoroughly if he wanted to get some sleep before the meeting. Of course, he had slept through meetings before, but if that happened too often then people would start to question what exactly Bruce Wayne did in his spare time.

Bruce discarded his suit and placed it in its sheath in the cave and donned a pair of sweatpants and a white t-shirt. He walked over to the elevator and soon he was back in Wayne manor. Bruce slipped into his bed and fell asleep instantly.

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**Selina Kyle POV (takes place at the end of the chase)**

"No one catches the Catwoman," I said, grinning, my eyelashes flirting with danger. I managed to scratch Batman's shoulder and get away with the portrait of an animated cat, a priceless treasure I deserved. I grinned wickedly at my speed. The harsh wind bit at the back of my neck, which was covered in dark, protective leather. Adrenaline pumped through my veins as I ascended in the air, my cape acting as a parachute as I glided in the air, leaping across buildings and slipping away into the rising dawn. I made use of the misty morning to hide my presence and soon found that the Batman was no longer on my trail.

The thrill of the chase, though, was truly worth much more than the possessions I earned. The Batman was intriguing, though most certainly nuts, I thought as I quickly entered my apartment through my window, evading the notice of a city that doesn't sleep until morning and wakes soon after. The hours between 5 a.m. and 7 a.m. were truly the most peaceful hours, where everybody slept in complete silence, oblivion absconding chaos temporarily as the sun slowly rose and men and women tossed back and forth in their sheets, sleeping fitfully but sleeping nonetheless.

I slipped into my apartment and slid out of my cat suit, shedding my mask last, my dark black hair falling around my shoulder blades and my weary but excited eyes donning a new persona. To live two lives – almost as if I had lived twice as long as someone else my age – was fascinating. A near sleepless life. It was more than thrilling….it was ethereal, breathtaking, glorious.

No one could ever hinder me; I was indestructible; that was what it felt like.

I donned a silk black nightgown and slipped into my bed, sleeping soundlessly and dreaming of a past I never wanted to return to.

_The scars invisible and the scars that marred; a little girl lost, trying to swim inside of my stream of consciousness – she can not survive in this world, she escapes to the dreamworld and is trapped inside me, asleep she lingers returning to a time where her father shook her, jarred her, hit her so she wouldn't feel, so she would go deep inside so a stronger Selina could emerge, but that lost girl was still inside, strangling, and sometimes at night the scars bled; they bled and bled but Catwoman prevents the bleeding from taking – the blood clots and the adrenaline races, a toy for the little girl to hold as strong Catwoman races, the wind making her feel free._

_The little girl is running through a maze, there is a carnival and she is lost and she can not find her parents. No one is there, but she is afraid daddy will be mad; he gets mad when she does something bad and she is in the maze and she should have returned to them hours ago. She can see balloons in the clear blue sky; there are only a few clouds. Then the scene changes, the sky darken and rain pours violently and the little girl sits in the corner, tears roll down her eyes as the rain turns into sleet and the scene changes again, she is sitting in the kitchen floor in the corner. Daddy is there, the tiles shift and instead of daddy there is a demon, tall and overpowering. His voice echoes and something bangs against her forehead; it is his fist._

_The scene changes again and she is older again, Selina without any of her makeup; Selina without her cat mask. She is standing in a field of daisies and tall grass and no one can see her and it is raining; it is always raining. She is holding hands with the little girl; the little girl from her past stands beside her in the dreams. They hold hands as the rain pours down. The little girl clutches Selina's hand but the force seems to drown Selina so Selina lets go. The little girl starts to cry and Selina slaps her. Selina watches as the little girl falls down and then the rain turns into the flood and Selina had looked to the left but when she turned around again the little girl was no where in sight, as if she had never been there at all. A part of her realizes, but doesn't really realize, that the little girl was herself when she was a little girl, but in dreamlike state her focus is on an innocent bystander – a stranger – she doesn't know but feels this jarring bond that is limiting her, holding her down. Compassion wells inside her skull for this girl, she is gone now; Selina thinks she drowned in the rain, she wasn't able to save her._

_Selina's black hair is soaking wet. Is it the rain or is it the tears? The grass is long, it hides her bare flesh. Suddenly she feels so naked, she isn't wearing anything. She tries to scream but no sound comes out._

_The field is gone and she finds that she is standing on top of a building, the only building left. All of the other buildings are crushed to the ground and a red and orange fire is blazing, licking a little boy's eyes and laughing; laughing manically. Selina's hair is soaking wet. She's crying but she's also laughing. A little girl is standing on the ground staring at her, looking up with wide, green eyes. One hand is holding a rainbow lollipop that her mother gave her; her body is bent over even as she gazes up at Selina; her other hand is touching the fire. Just as soon as the little girl appears, she flickers away again, as if she never even existed._

_And Selina is standing there, devoid of her mask, mascara rolling down her face, makeup ruined, laughing and crying, as Gotham City destroys itself. She thinks she is screaming but she hears no sound; her mouth is open but her vocal cords are frozen shut._

_And then she wakes up, balls of sweat rolling down her forehead like painted crystals, and she is tangled in her white silk sheets._

The dream scared me but my legs didn't shake as I walked to the refrigerator and poured a glass of orange juice. The red digits of the clock on the black microwave read 8:30 a.m. and I tumbled back into my bedroom but found that for the life of me I could not fall back asleep.

And that was fine with me. Awake, only I was in control.

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"Wake up, Master Bruce," Alfred said walking into Bruce's room and opening the blinds on the window. Bruce rolled over onto his side and pulled the blanket over his head, feeling sleepy and not wanting to get up. Finally he forced himself to sit up. He saw spots of red on the sheets and anger flared as he remembered the Catwoman; last night he had forgotten that she had scratched his shoulder. He tried to hide it from Alfred but to no avail.

Temporarily ignoring Alfred's knowing look, Bruce dropped to the floor to do his morning routine of 2-per-second pushups.

"What happened to your shoulder, Master Bruce?" Alfred asked when he was done, handing him a glass of orange juice.

"It's nothing, just a scratch. A thief who calls herself the 'Catwoman'," Bruce said.

"Did you get her?" Alfred asked.

Bruce shook his head with frustration. He didn't understand how _fast_ she was.

"No, she got away," Bruce said.

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During the meeting Bruce tried to ignore everything that was going on in his head but he couldn't stop thinking about Catwoman. He knew he should focus on larger scale criminals – Catwoman was a thief but as far as Bruce knew she wasn't a murderer – and he was only letting her win by allowing her to take up such a huge portion of his obsession. Still, he couldn't help it.

He also couldn't stop thinking of Hanna, the way she held herself – as if she was unaware of her beauty and that, in Bruce's opinion, made her even more beautiful. But he didn't have a right to interfere with her life. A part of him, deeply hidden inside but still managing slight control over him, wanted to. In all honesty, this was a revelation that surprised him. He tried to bury it. It had been a year since Rachel died and Bruce knew that a piece of himself would always belong with Rachel. And not even counting all of the other reasons Bruce couldn't enter a relationship (much less fall in love), that just wouldn't be fair to her. Either of them, Rachel or Hanna.

'_But Rachel couldn't accept you for who you are.'_

He ignored the voice in his head, or in his heart, whatever the matter it didn't make things better or worse.

Rachel was strong. Bruce wanted to believe that Rachel had loved him, because if she couldn't, then _**who**_ could?

'_If Rachel couldn't, no one can.'_

Was that his fear? That no one could accept him, that it was his destiny to be alone forever?

But he knew that it was right. He silently reflected on a quote from Lord of the Rings: "You are a ring bearer, Frodo. To bear a ring of power is to be alone…this task was appointed to you, and if you do not find a way, no one will." And thinking about that he reflected that Tolkien was right, that there are burdens that few people in the world must choose to bear, and no one can truly help them bear it, because it would put them in danger. And Bruce didn't want to put anyone he loved in danger. It should have been Rachel's choice to stay away from him, and it was, but it had been too late.

Sometimes he thinks that it is because he wasn't strong enough. That it is because he couldn't stay away from her. The Joker had noticed that he kept on saving her. What was he supposed to do, not save her? Stop loving her?

But now Bruce knew better; he would not enter into another relationship, not one where the woman knew about his alter-ego, his true self. And what relationship based on deception – a relationship lacking honesty and foiled by dark secrets that cannot be uncovered by the price of her life – can survive? No, it simply was not possible.

That letter that Rachel had given Bruce, she was right, Bruce would never be able to put down the mantle of Batman, because if he wouldn't do it, then who would? And it was only deception to think that there would be a time Gotham would not need Batman. Once the city starts relying on help, it stops doing for itself, and in a sense is paralyzed and can not survive without help. Gotham City – intended or not intended – relied on Batman, and would shatter without his guardianship.

After the meeting, despite his reflection, Bruce couldn't help but research Hanna Ming. She was intriguing and he told himself that curiosity couldn't hurt much. He stopped when he found her phone number; invading her privacy seemed harsh and unnecessary seeing as she did nothing wrong.

And curiosity pushed him forward, after all what could one lunch hurt? So he decided to call her; if he wanted to know about her he decided that he would ask her instead of invading her privacy without her permission.

So he dialed the number.

She answered. "Hanna Ming speaking. May I ask who is calling?"

**To Be Continued….**

_Author's Comments:_

_Rachel was wrong, you know. Its not what a person does that defines him or her. It plays a part, of course, but the real fuel is the lost little girl or boy strangling deep inside. Not necessarily strangling, except of course for in this case. All of the characters, borrowed and created. Everyone knows that that little boy inside is the driving force behind his actions, his desire and willingness to be an avenger for justice. Anyone who thinks it is about revenge isn't seeing it straight. And anyone who thinks Rachel is fair in saying she'll "be with him once Gotham doesn't need Batman" is nuts because what she is saying is "I love you but I'll only be with you if you give up being Batman" which means "I love you but I'll only be with you if you change because I'm too afraid to accept you for who you truly are." Sorry about the rant. I hope Selina and my OC are stronger than Rachel, they aren't perfect though because in this story I plan to carve out their flaws as the story comes out. _

_Sometimes its not what we do…_

_Coming up next, will Hanna continue to resist Bruce Wayne's charm, or will Bruce himself decide to give up and change course when he meets the dark and alluring Selina Kyle? Later, Hanna is having lunch with a few friends and spots Bruce with some dark haired chick; will Hanna be jealous? Review if you want to find out!_


	2. Walls

_**Previously on "We Live In Glass Houses"…**_

_And curiosity pushed him forward, after all what could one lunch hurt? So he decided to call her; if he wanted to know about her he decided that he would ask her instead of invading her privacy without her permission._

_So he dialed the number._

_She answered. "Hanna Ming speaking. May I ask who is calling?"_

_**And now presenting……  
**_

**Chapter Two: Walls**

**Hanna POV**

"Bruce Wayne speaking. How are you today, milady?" a cocky but slightly ajar voice sounded on the other end of the line. I walked over to my small couch and plopped down, confusion shaking my body. Anger, too. I could guess what he wanted; the news has the world convinced that Bruce Wayne was a playboy that always gets what he wants but I wasn't about to let him in. He was about to get a newsflash: nothing was easy, and Hanna Ming most certainly _wasn't_.

"Why are you calling me?" I asked, not bothering to hide the bitter distaste in my voice.

"I was wondering if you wanted to have lunch with me, just as friends."

"We aren't friends, Mr. Wayne," I said coldly. It briefly entered my mind that perhaps I was being unfair, but I pushed the thought away as soon as it entered my slightly unstable mind. Unstable, maybe, but certainly a mind stronger than the mind of any of the sane, if that makes any sense. Which it doesn't have to….make sense, that is.

I stood up, pacing back and forth in my room and stared at the open document on my laptop, which was sitting on my desk like a cold duck. I had been in the middle of what I called a writing-coma (which means I get so into my writing that I was really inside whatever story I was writing, a trancelike state that made my characters seem real and my ideas flow more freely) when my cell phone rang, and it frustrated me to know that the idea would be lost because that egotistical playboy had interrupted my writing spree and possibly destroyed the potential-novel.

"How did you get my number, anyways, Wayne?" I asked. Calling him Wayne made my adrenaline spike. Asserting my authority, or at least that was what I told myself. Let him know that I wasn't afraid of his wealth and popularity. That I certainly had no respect for him.

"Oh, I have my way, Hanna."

I wanted to smack him. No, correction, I didn't, because that would mean I was in the same room as him and I was too disgusted with him to be near him.

"I really don't have time for this, Bruce," I said. Had I just called him Bruce? What was happening to me?

"Just one lunch, Hanna," Bruce said.

I closed my eyes and tried to imagine a different world. A world of shadow and light, something beyond _this_ emptiness inside of me. I need to be strong, there's no place in this world for the weak.

But what would _one_ lunch hurt?

"Fine," I said. "But don't think this means anything, Bruce."

------------------------

Forty-five minutes later I was sitting inside Bruce Wayne's car and his butler, Alfred, was driving us to a restaurant. His butler did seem like a nice guy but I didn't know what I should think of a guy who has a butler do everything for him. From early on I had always preferred to do things the hard way. No task was an impossible task – if there was a will, there was a way.

So why was I in the car with Bruce Wayne? Was my subconscious telling me something? I briefly considered that thought but then scoffed, thinking, 'I think _not_.'

Briefly I looked down at my bare arms and wondered if Bruce would notice the long-faded scars. He wouldn't, though, nobody did. The best way to hide something is in plain sight.

"So why do you want to go to lunch with me?" I asked, studying Bruce's face, trying to discern motive in his dark chocolate eyes. I wasn't really good at talking so I considered winking but decided against it.

For a second I thought I saw something flash through Bruce's eyes but as soon as it was there it was gone, and there was billionaire playboy Bruce and I didn't want to get into something like this.

'Too late, Hanna,' I scolded myself internally.

"I don't know, you just seemed interesting. I've read your books," Bruce said.

If I didn't know any better I'd think Bruce Wayne seemed _nervous_, ha, that's so unlike the Bruce Wayne in the tabloids. 'Get a hold of yourself, Ming.'

"Did you like them?" I asked and then realized what a silly question that was to ask and I assured myself that I didn't care if I made a fool of myself.

"Sure, is it true that writers take from their own lives?" Bruce teased.

"Haha, Bruce, not true," I said, even though he was partially right (it wasn't like I was going to admit to it).

"You sure?" he joked with a crooked grin.

I don't know why I said it but I said, "You wanna find out?"

Right after I said it the car pulled up at the restaurant. 'Saved by the bell,' I thought, relieved. Before I knew it Bruce was out of the car and holding the door open for me. I felt awkward when he reached to hold my hand and instinctively I pulled my hand away. It was just an instinctive reaction and I didn't know if I should take it back or not. It was too late now anyways.

I turned to look at Bruce's face as we walked into the expensive restaurant and studied his angular jaw and his dark eyes, trying to see something that wasn't there, or trying to stop seeing something that was there. I didn't know which was worse.

----------------------------

**Bruce POV**

I went to hold Hanna Ming's hand but she jerked her hand back and I was surprised by the power I felt in her hand. I could sense that she was reluctant to be seen with me but that was understandable considering what the world thought I was. Plus, I really shouldn't be getting involved with her – I had duty and this could only put her in danger.

Reporters with cameras swarmed us as we walked into the restaurant. We tried to dodge the blinding lights, but who knows, they might have snuck a shot or two in. I wouldn't put it past them – snapping their cameras like vultures swarming down on fragile prey with neither remorse nor heart. Cold, biting, the only care in the world being the money they would get from selling the pictures and spreading new rumors to the already cold, dark world.

The waiter lead me and Hanna to a table and handed both of us a menu. The restaurant was crowded and I hoped I didn't run into any socialites that would ruin this or give Hanna a hard time. It had happened before, which is another reason I usually avoided dating that actually meant something.

As we sat down in the redwood chairs at the table I studied Hanna's face and tried to gauge her reactions but I wasn't getting anything from her, her mouth was a line and her eyes didn't betray any emotions or fears she may be harboring underneath. Briefly I remembered what Rachel had told me a long time ago, "It isn't who you are underneath, but what you do, that defines you." I thought about the question I asked Hanna and wondered if her own life was as tragic as the novels she wrote; if what she "did" (write novels) shed any light to who she was underneath. And then I wondered why I cared so much and scolded myself for getting too close.

"You seem deep in thought," Hanna suddenly said, breaking me from my reverie.

"Just thinking of something an old friend once said," I said, trying to hide nostalgia from my voice.

Looking up from the menu, Hanna said, "And what was that?"

It was curious that she asked about the words instead of the person. But, she was a writer, so maybe that's all that is. I hesitated and then said, "She said that it's not who you are underneath, but what you do, that defines you."

Hanna seemed interested and was about to say something when the waiter appeared at the table and asked us what we wanted to drink.

"Just water," I said.

"Lemonade for me," Hanna said. There was a strange look on her face.

After the waiter left Hanna didn't say anything else about the previous topic. Silence penetrated the conversation but it wasn't completely an awkward silence. The drinks came and then we ordered our meals.

We had been eating for a while, not really talking much, when Hanna said, "What happened to her?"

"Who?" I asked.

"The person who told you that. That it's what people do that defines them," Hanna said. I deduced that Hanna was a very observational person if she could detect very subtle things such as the foreboding loss that must have rang through in my voice, no matter how much I had tried to hide it. Maybe some things just weren't possible. But I didn't bother to ask how she knew something happened.

"She died," I said.

"I'm sorry," Hanna said.

"It's not your fault," I said. 'Its mine,' I thought. 'I should have known that the Joker would switch the addresses.'

"Wanna talk about something else?" Hanna asked. She was perceptive, too.

"Sure."

-----------------------------

In the evening I patrolled for a few hours, stopping a few petty thefts and saving a young (faceless, really, just like Batman) girl from impending rape. It was as if the whole world was divided into the perpetrators of evil and the civilians I saved from evil, but in neither did I (nor could I) form any really connections, and I knew that Rachel was right, selfish maybe, but right – I could never be close to anyone because Batman was my real face and Bruce Wayne was my mask but for Batman to work Batman had to be faceless.

The truth was, I never would have asked Rachel to be with me, anyways. It was too dangerous. She died. Whether or not we were in a relationship. It seemed that simply having the feelings and being there to save her in the past had done the damage. How ironic.

Later the Bat Signal was on. I sped off in the Batmobile hoping Gotham wasn't falling into another crisis but knowing better, of course Gotham was. The street lights had long gone out and Gotham City no longer held any false illusions of grandeur and beauty. Evil did tend to disguise itself with beauty and temptation.

I appeared from the shadows on top of the building in front of Gordon.

"What is it this time?" I asked in a dark raspy voice.

"A new serial killer is on the loose, I'm not sure if he's killing for money or something else but I'm pretty sure it's not the mob, different MO," Gordon said, handing me a file to look at. From the description the henchman working for the main man seemed more experienced than the ordinary thug and at both scenes they left no evidence behind.

"Assassins?" I asked.

"Maybe," Gordon said.

"I'll look into it," I said, committing the information in the file to memory and then disappearing into the night.

**TBC….**

**What do you think so far? Is first person working or is it too awkward? Should I change it to third person? Is it too OC heavy?**


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